Imagine yourself in a new world. What’s it like? What do you see around you?

Through a collaborative effort, the following pages represent our visions of what alternative realities could

look like. From hopeful to haunting, playful to pessimistic, creative to concrete, we hope these works stimulate your senses and cause you to question your

own surroundings and internal thoughts.

We invite you to dream new futures with us.

contributorsAmber Bares || Jess Draws || Monica Hall

Janetta Hill || Cheris Nelson || Robin PeetersDani Rosas Mora || Abby Ross || Dhool Siad

Meara Sweetnam || Kat Turner || Rachel WidraAmy Wilson || Maria Wood

To hear more about these works and the artists’ ideas behind them, visit:

https://soundcloud.com/art-social-justice

By Rachel Widra

GiftedI sink down into the couch, grateful for the first semblance of a break I’ve had in days. My sisters are

scurrying around the kitchen cooking a feast truly fit for a king while my aunts and cousins and mother lounge around the living room talking about family and work and hopes and dreams the way you do at these sorts of things. My tiny son is cradled in my mother’s arm, his little eyes just barely peeking out of his blanket. As much as I wish I was holding him I know I’m better off keeping my distance, this will be much harder if I get too attached. I tell

myself, “this is how the world works, this how it’s supposed to be, this is God’s plan, you’ll get your own child soon enough.” I trust God and our country and I know this is how the world has to be if we want Peace and Fairness.

Peace and Fairness above all. Tomorrow we will take this baby to the priest to be Gifted to his family. Someday I will be Gifted with my own baby meant just for me.

“Jaina, how are you feeling?” Suddenly all eyes are on me, my concerned aunt’s question reminding the room of my presence.

“I’m alright. A little tired I guess, but full of hope for tomorrow.”“Are you nervous?” one of the cousins asks, and we briefly all imagine the worst. A pause as the weight of

the question and all the possible answers settles before I respond,“No, why should I be? I can already tell he’s a tiny king.” Everyone sighs their relief, chuckles a little, and

nods their agreement. We can’t bear to think about the alternative.Later that evening when most of the guests have trickled out for the night I’m left washing dishes alone in

the kitchen. I’m glad for a peaceful moment with just my thoughts and prayers while the hot soapy water washes my anxieties from my palms. My mother sidles in quietly and stops in the doorway just watching my wash. I can feel her presence, her thoughts pushing against my own. I can feel her slight uneasiness, the pressing tension of

unpleasent words waiting to be spoken. Slowly I turn off the water and turn to her. We just look at each other, the piercing blue of her eyes burning through my much-darker skin. Finally she takes a deep breath and closes the space between us, joining me at the sink. In an almost apologetic voice barely above a whisper she asks me, “Jaina, when

you present the baby to the priest tomorrow, do you have an….offering to present as well?”“Mom, I don’t need to do that. I’m not going to do that. The priest is carrying out God’s will. God know

where this baby belongs.”“But Jaina, an offering might help make up God’s mind. It could show Him how much we love Him and

that this baby comes from a good godly family. Certainly that could help him get Gifted higher!”“God doesn’t take bribes, Mom. You know as well as I do God is not corrupt. Anything you’ve heard about

baby bribes has certainly been made up by people of little faith and poor conscious. I trust God will do what’s right.”“Baby, there’s no harm in doing it just in case it could make a difference. Why not get every possible

thing going for you?” She slipped a folded banknote into my pocket. “Here. I know it’s not much but it’s all I had. Please, just tuck this in his blanket tomorrow. I’m begging you. For his sake. For my sake. I can’t watch my child

go through that again.” I smile at her sadly and shake my head. Pulling the note out of my pocket and sliding it back into her hand I tell her what she always told us growing up,

“You gotta have faith.”

* * *

I bring my own lunch too school but it’s never anything good. Today my mom packed raisins and a cheese sandwich. Whenever I try to ask for something better she reminds me at least I get a packed lunch, the kids in the

lower Orders have to wait in line for the school slop and that’s always worse than what I get. I think they deserve slop; they were Gifted into low Orders because they’re not Influential, Intelligent, or Kind. They don’t

deserve the privileges that come with our Orders. I don’t tell my mom that though; she wouldn’t think it was very Kind of me at all. I know that God knows who we are when we’re just babies and Gifts us into families in the Order we belong in but I think sometimes Mom might have trouble with Faith. I don’t talk to her about it though because she would get in trouble if anyone heard. I hope she knows that God knew I was Kind so he put me with her in the Kindness Order. God knew I was Kind even if she thinks I don’t always show it. I know we might not get as much as the Influence and Intelligence Orders but it’s okay because it’s how God designed it to be. I hope she’s not sad

that we’re not in a higher Order. I hope she’s not sad because that would make her Greedy and they taught us that’s the worst thing you can be. I don’t talk to her about that either. Sometimes when I tell her about the things I learned in school she just gives me a little smile and tells me I’m a good little Citizen, but I’m not sure she’s proud of me

when she says it. Despite how she says it I say a genuine “thank you” and give her a hug because I am Kind.

In the lunchroom I sit with the other Kind kids. We all eat some variation of sandwiches and fruit and normally work on our homework. We have to work twice as hard as the Intelligent kids to get good grades because it’s not as natural or easy for us. After lunch we go back to our classrooms, kids from the lower two Orders in one room, Kind and Intelligent kids in the next, and then Influential kids in their own room. We’re not allowed in there, but I’ve heard they have snacks on every table and chairs that spin and roll and a teacher that looks like a supermodel

but prettier and an indoor jungle gym for break time and fireworks instead of school bells and even a class dog! My classroom just has normal desks with chairs attached. We only have snack time once a day and we have to bring our own snack and we definitely don’t have a jungle gym or fireworks. Our teacher is such an Exhaustible, he’s

always mean and angry, he gives too much homework and is nicer to the Intelligent kids even when they’re being bad! Once and awhile, only when the teacher’s being really mean, I wish we didn’t have Orders, but I know that’s a Greedy thought. I know we need Orders to make sure all the right people are doing the right jobs and filling the right roles. We might not all get the same things but I guess there probably aren’t enough supermodel teacher for

everyone. The Orders are the only real way to have Peace and Fairness.

* * *

The family in the pews is dressed in all white, a color of celebration and happiness, one final attempt at optimism. The mother is kneeling at the bottom of the altar praying continuously. The baby in my arms is small

and delicate, perfectly serene despite all of the anxiety in the room. I place one hand on the child’s head and start the chant, softly at first a quiet murmur to God but gaining intensity and passion. The family in the pews is praying

fervently, the mother has tears streaming down her face, the baby starts squirming just a little bit. Finally at the apex of the chant the altar fills with impenetrable smoke so I can no longer see the family and they can no longer

see me. Quickly, masterfully I unwrap the blanket around the child and feel it for anything tucked inside. Nothing. I search the child. Nothing. Foolish, based on the way they were dressed this family clearly has the means to make an offering but didn’t. They should know better. Well, if they didn’t before they certainly will now. I feel a moment of remorse for the baby, but what can I do? We need someone to be in the lower Orders. I rewrap the child and place it on the table. Opening the trapdoor behind the altar I disappear down the stairs and close the door softly behind me,

only just hearing the start of a wail as the family learns the decision.Exhaustible.

By Maria WoodMachine embroidery on LinenCAPTIVE

By Jess Draws

This is a story about you.

You can feel yourself getting worse, and you aren’t really sure how to stop it. It’s when you’re standing there, shaking, with the bottle of pills in your hand that you know it’s time to check in. You make a call to the helpline, and a car comes and picks you up after you’ve packed your bags. You aren’t really sure what is and isn’t real, but the Safeguards take you to your new room, and it is quiet and warm with soft light. You hand over your identification card, and the Safeguard swipes it through her intake device. Your information pops up, and she scans it quickly while making a few adjustments to the room. She thanks you for coming; she says you did the right thing. Your tense, uncertain body shakes. Next, the in house counselor makes a visit. You and they have a short conversation about what you need in that moment. They pull up your Wellness Recovery Action Plan from your file, and put in the updates you stammer out. They tell you you are safe here. They tell you that they are happy you made this choice. The counselor asks if you want a companion for your stay, and you shake your head yes. They pull up a short list of who is available, and you select the silliest name, Noodles. They tell you that the Safehouse staff will take care of you until you feel better. You know this is true, and you are still scared of yourself. A Safeguard walks in with a puffy grey cat in their arms. The cat is purring. The cat is Noodles. They hand you Noodles and tell you not to worry about feeding or watering it, as that will be taken care of by the staff. The soft light and low purrs pull strands of worry out of you. You feel safer. You feel sleepy. The Safeguard shows you what to press if you need anything; they leave; they shut the door behind them. You turn off the soft light and Noodles curls beside you. Your ceiling turns on, and you flip through the scenes until you reach the night sky. Being so small and insignificant in the midst of something so big gives you peace. Peace. You close your eyes. You open your eyes. It’s morning. Your ceiling is off; light leaks through the thin curtains near your window. You still wish you were dead. Noodles meows and butts its head against your hand. You are empty and small. They told you you would be safe, but the feelings don’t leave. The shaking is back. You fold into yourself; there is clutter in your head. You hear a knock on your door, and you don’t respond. A Safeguard enters. They feel your suffering. They kneel by your bedside. Everything that is happening to you right now is supposed to be happening. They say. You are safe, you are worthy. It is okay to be scared. They take your hand, and your sweaty grip feels as if it could crush their smooth fingers. The feelings are real, but they are not the reality. They say. You repeat. The feelings are real, but they are not the reality. You are still gone, but you know you should eat, and you say so. The Safeguard smiles - See? You are built to survive. You put on some slippers and gather Noodles in one arm, and with the other hand hold fast to the Safeguard. The Safeguard smiles and leads you to the dining room. There are three other people seated at the table. One is fastidiously organizing their cereal into rows, whispering quietly to the companion dog next to them, whose head rests in their lap. You sit next to them, and they smile absently at you and return to their organizing. Your head is still cluttered, it feels right to be near another person who asked for help._____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Safehouses slowly became a preferred alternative to hospitalization a few years after you were born, when the United States defunded their military. Originally, this was done as a last ditch effort to save the states, as many were experiencing record high unemployment, homelessness, and suicide rates, which was leading their populations to flee in large numbers. Part of this money that was suddenly available went into health care. As health care became more person centered, research returned the results again and again that community based respite houses were the best option for folks who needed temporary help in managing their lives. Safehouses are free, and folks can stay as long as they need to. Based on symptoms and a self-assessment of what level of help is needed, staff channels folks to the Safehouse that will serve them best. There are identity based subgroups and houses, and ones that are specifically for marginalized folks are in close proximity and connection with each other in the same neighborhoods, so it’s easy to fluidly move betwixt and between community. Folks are trusted to keep up activities that will make them feel better - so if they want, they can continue going to work or school. However, there’s no danger of falling behind at either, as everyone has had enough mental health leave from the start to account for something like this. Parents, friends, and chosen family can visit whenever they want, and all are happy that their loved ones are getting the care they need. Safehouses are also so successful because they are committed to work within a network of support services that get folks connected with the resources they need to build community and self regulatory coping skills after their stay. Staff is treated exceptionally well, given slightly more paid time off than other positions due to the stress of the job, and also salaried on a “thriving wage”, which is mandated for all jobs in the United States. Safehouse staff are encouraged to sit on boards and councils of other community organizations and groups, and part of their salary is dedicated to pay for their time attending these meetings. Safehouse staff also enjoy a rich peer community of fellow Safeguards, with identity based subgroupings offering support networks and consistent opportunities for enrichment such as state, regional, national, and international conferences. Safehouses aren’t necessarily there to just keep folks out of hospitals; they’re there to give folks informed choices into their recovery without isolation.

BEE AND THE PATH TO PERCEPTION By: Monica Hall

Bee looked up at the ceiling. It was white, blindingly white, with a crack in the cement 26 cm from the wall. His shadow greatly contrasted against the white interior. He wore cotton threads, a size XL shirt and size M trousers. The hem of the trousers was too short and his anklebones stuck out as he sat upright on the edge of his cot.

Bee looked at the door to his left. Sometimes he forgot the freedom associated with door

handles. Last night he’d been liberated, as if just for a moment. He was perched on the low branch of a towering tree. He brought himself to his feet, his toes gripping the abrasive bark. He glanced up at the sky. Clouds? Present. Sun? Still shining. A sense of tranquility returned to his body and mind as he dangled his feet in the tall grasses emerging up from the ground below. He leapt from his perch and glided through the air before landing on the soil and taking off across the field. As his steps treaded forward, he glanced up at the clouds. Yeah, they were present. Sun? Still shining. “Schedule I controlled substance,” they called it. Bee hadn’t known what to do. He smoked because he understood the potential of his mind. He rewarded it, stimulated it, for providing him with reasoning abilities and creative processes. His comfort stemmed from his mind. Sometimes his thoughts were so fluid his brain stems felt like jellyfish. He remembered this sensation; his eyes would start to glisten as if his brain waves were shining through his pupils.

“Black lungs. Clear mind. Clear lungs. Black mind.”

He jotted down his thoughts each day in a chapter book he had never returned to the

library. He figured his words were safest there.

His public defender was a lanky, recently graduated intellectual with a compassionate demeanor. He had urged the judge to admit Bee to a diversion program. He felt the judge’s retort, “that’s not how this system works” pierce through him as his chance at salvation was dismissed. At 17 years young, he was given 20 years in The Institution with 5 additional, agonizing years of strict surveillance. He knew that these 5 years were not accompanied by a sense of liberty. He knew the tricks, he knew the misconceptions, but most of all, he knew the power held by the “deciders” (as his acquaintances called them), in determining the fate of a released individual. Bee had spent almost half of his life in a cell, at the disposal of an authority more influential than any greater entity he could ever begin to comprehend. Bee was a punk; he pushed the boundaries but retained charisma. His naive hopefulness that only reaped disappointment began to feel like a perpetual hallucination. His mentor in grade 9, Mr. G, had “Equal Justice Under Law” engraved into his arm. Bee hadn’t grasped how words of an abuser could be spun to accomplish their intentions. He had come to realize that “equal” or “justice” were entirely subjective, and that The Law did not look after all beings. One seemingly ordinary afternoon, hushed headlines could be overheard in common spaces of The Institution. Bee glanced at the printed press release that had blown to the ground amidst a rush during transition time. The nation’s new leader, Collaborator Q, had just passed a law titled, “Right to Reintegrate.” Skin pigment had bled through social relations for centuries- this was the nation’s chance. Darker pigments rejoiced. Lighter pigments, now the minority, experienced a heightened sense of hatred, betrayed by their previously privileged past.

Bee visited The Institution’s library for stimulation but was disappointed by damaged pages and missing excerpts. The convoluted path Bee followed to find exoneration led him to innovation. He captured his mental process tangibly, sketched onto a napkin during mealtime or etched into his memories during the early morning hours within his white walls. It was amid these times of clarity that Bee developed his ideas. Bee designed a program led by community activists called “Legal Liaisons.” The program consisted of pop-up clinics that provided legal education to targeted communities. The liaisons were nestled within a small office in the local library or stationed at a desk within the corner convenience store. These liaisons sought justice using a systematic approach. Sometimes Bee fantasized about the profound impact the “Legal Liaisons” could bestow on the darker pigments. Bee focused upon the youth- Bee focused upon the oppressed- and Bee focused upon people like himself.

“What a magical microcosm of humanity”... Bee wrote.

Sound and sensible legal advice provided to the youth.

Legal advice provided to the youth with a past.

Legal advice provided to the youth with a future.

Legal advice provided to the youth in the present. The next four years passed stagnantly. Bee became trapped in the confines of his mind. Bee became trapped in the confines of The Institution. As the sun crept above the horizon, salvation came in the form of a meeting with a lawyer from the newly created “Reconstructed Communities Initiative.” Big developments had occurred under Collaborator Q’s leadership, and the voices of darker pigments had begun to ring out. The lawyer told Bee that he was to be released by the end of the month. Bee hadn’t expected to see a future outside of his

white walls. Bee was terrified of a future outside of his

white walls.

They picked him up in a black van. The van’s interior was white, blindingly white, which provided Bee with a sense of relief. They arrived at a broad building with the words “Re-entry Residence” displayed at its entrance. In his first moments of stepping onto the sidewalk, Bee heard buzzing amidst a bed of butterfly bushes. The hum was overwhelmingly familiar, reminding him of his lost identity, his past that was so far forgotten from his consciousness. He felt a tear escape from his eyelid as he advanced towards the entrance.

Bee had forgotten the freedom associated with door handles.

The subsequent afternoon, Bee went for a walk

and allowed his introspections to wander in unison with his feet. He was strolling in a haze

and flashed back to a memory of her. She called him beautiful and Bee called her “Brave”—but

they listened most to what was left unsaid. Suddenly, Bee realized his perspectives that were

too complex for Earth, those that pushed the boundaries of the Atmosphere, would dissolve

into the air that sustains his loved ones. Tension in his mind was released and began to

flow from his soul. He was terrified, overwhelmed, flustered...

yet strangely free.

By Amy Wilson

By Amber Bares

By Robin Peeters

By Robin Peeters

By Abby Ross

S’Mores

Dad squeezed me through my puffy winter coat. The report card crumpled between our bodies. “Highest achievements in academics and happiness” he reads, still clutching me to his chest. Pulling away, he beams down at me. “I’ll get out the S’mores supplies” he says.

Marcus my older brother walked into the kitchen. “S’mores ?”, he grinned. “You must have done well” he says glancing the report card on the kitchen table. By the looks of his Green Bay Packer pajama pants and bed head, he had taken the day off of university. Today his numbers must have been too low to go to class. He too had to scan the small chip in his wrist to document his mental health each day. But unlike me, Marcus has always had a harder time staying in the top happiness category. Maybe it gets harder after third grade because he has takes many more days off than I do. This is his sixth year at school which mom says is okay, because college doesn’t cost anything.

“Yes!” my father confirms as he noisily rustled through the pantry for marshmallows, gra-ham crackers and Hershey’s chocolate. He emerges balancing two boxes of crackers, two bags of marshmallows, four chocolate bars and skewers in his arms. He spreads the goodies out onto the kitchen table and I can practically feel my numbers rising.

We live in the city, because my mother is an artist here. My dad calls her the ‘breadwin-ner’ - but I don’t understand why. When I ask dad why he doesn’t go to work, he tells me “My job is here at home looking after you!”. He says when mom retires they will both be home during the day. “Today, creatives can always find a job and make a living” he says, “It hasn’t always been like that. Your mom is lucky. I am lucky too because we both get to do what makes us happy”.

Marcus returned to the kitchen carrying our ‘campfire candle’. It’s a big chunky red one with four wicks. Dad said when he was little, they would go where there were many trees and very few people to make real campfires outside. S’mores around the campfire is a very important part of camping he says. Someday, Dad said we will all take a big trip many hours north to go camping in the ‘forest’. Forests are very rare because when dad was little peopled did not take care of them. Now instead we have to pretend. I don’t mind though because this is our special tradition.

We each reach for a skewer and a marshmallow as mom walks through the front door. “Top marks in happiness?” she asked setting down her bags. Mom kisses my forehead as she reaches for the chocolate. I don’t think that any of us will have trouble with our happi-ness scans tomorrow.

By Janetta Hill

By Meara Sweetnam

Rad Babes in Space

Rad babes leave earth to flee their student loans, found a feminist (trans, queer, POC

inclusive) separatist colony and have to process all the residual pain of the

patriarchy

Walmart Militarism

It’s revealed that under every Walmart there is a government military training

academy. That’s why they’re so big

Gay Zombies

Turns out anti-vaxers were right to be worried, the polio vaccine has mutated into a

gay zombie virus. Roving herds of gay zombies now roam across the U.S. in search of

same sex flesh

The Trumpinator

Donald Trump is a cyborg sent back from the future by the Chinese government to

ensure that America falls from its spot as “world leader”

Reparations

Reparations are made in cases of redlining and unlawful incarceration of Black

Americans. Large numbers of impoverished Black Americans are pulled out of

poverty. Nothing bad happens

Meninist Outbreak

Recent E. coli outbreaks at the Denver based chain restaurant Chipotle Mexican Grill

linked to an upsurge of Meninist ideology across the U.S. Scientists are finding a

strong correlation between E. coli infection and feelings of threatened masculinity

The Future

Who run the world? Girls

By Cheris Nelson

Daniela Rosas MoraArt and Social Justice

I BelongA new world surrounds me, unfamiliar, strange yet so beautiful.I hear strange voices, new sounds. Walking new streets with my dreams in my heart, I find myself lost, isolated yet surrounded by people.People who push me to succeed, others who pull me back and try to keep me from reaching my dreams.Dreams of becoming someone better than my parents, dreams of obtaining the best education.Education that is not available in my home country. Yet it’s not very valued in this new world. New world which places many obstacles my way yet sends me supportive beings.I came here to be reunited with my parents, my only family. To make our dreams a reality. I don’t understand how this new world works or how to function in it. I stay in my safe space.Space which seems to be reduced each time I step out of it.

“Will I ever understand how to live and function here?”

On a daily basis I struggle to understand my surroundings, the people, the language, the culture.Culture which seems to be one sided, driven in one direction, controlled by those in power.Power is what I need to continue exploring my new surroundings, to continue understanding the norms and rules of which I’ve been brought to abruptly.I am new hereI am different I am uniqueI belong here. But not everyone seems to agree.

The faces, and words full of hatred I see and hear every now and then, when I make a mistake are venom to my well being.That being which has worked hard to speak the language and learn the culture and tried to get along with others is not accepted by some.I face discrimination, judgements which I had not experienced in my old world.An old world which has been torn apart, there’s no turning back now.

I will not sit around and stay quiet when I am verbally attacked. I will speak up and defend my right to be here and that of belonging to this new world, which has become my new home.Home is where my heart is and my heart is filled with love and respect for those who misunderstood me and mistreated me. I have the right to be here, just as much as anyone else, and to pursue my dreams of a brighter future.I will continue to fight for what’s right, and for others who like me have endured much suffering just to improve their lives. We all deserve to be treated with equality and respect.That is why I belong here.

By Jahleigh Bullie